Being Brave (or Fuck It)

Early this summer, at the persistent urging of one of my English professors, I audited my first college course, ever-- a creative writing class out of UH Mānoa. I was nervous as shit and came up with as many excuses as I have fingers and toes to get myself out of it.  My excuse-making had great timing.  I had just finished a particularly grueling Spring semester, one in which Iʻd taken two science classes (NOT my forte), linguistics (fun, but challenging), and an Ed class (which was not challenging at all).  I wanted to relax, and though I have always found writing to be cathartic, writing creatively for a class is not what Iʻd call stress free.  Itʻs not that writing is difficult, itʻs the creative part that scares me.  Why?

Iʻve been telling myself my whole adult life that Iʻm not creative.

When I write blogs, itʻs to release or vent or work through something.  When I make things with felt, Iʻm just fooling around, killing time.  When I paint and craft, it isnʻt anything special or worth saving.  When I plate dinner in a particularly pleasing fashion, I blush and marvel at this accidental outcome.  None of these things demonstrates any creativity on my part.  Theyʻre simply serendipitous.

Furthermore, I never bought into the idea that a person could become a good writer through practice.  I have known several good writers for most of my life, and they've always managed to make it look effortless.  This has lead me to believe that writing talent is innate.  So since I'm not as good as these other people and there's no way that I could ever become as good as they (because, let's face it, if I'm getting better, surely they are, too), why try?

This is all bullshit, of course. I was hiding behind my insecurities, not daring myself to try.  If I didn't try, I couldn't fail.  I would content myself with writing scholastic essays that wowed my teachers (whose standards these days are perilously low, I have to point out), relying instead on my firm grasp of grammar and diction.  The wonderful teachers at Kamehameha taught me the rules well, of course, and I do love to read.

But taking this class this summer pushed me out of my comfort zone and stripped away all the excuses. Charlie's unfailing encouragement and positive outlook and promises of support won the day.  And when I decided to commit to the class, I said, "Fuck it," and did it.  There's only so much hemming and hawing a person can do, and if I continued, my fears would come true and I would fail.  I had to try.  I had to see.  I grew more confident in my writing and I was astonished by what I produced.  Oh, I authored nothing amazing or astounding, but I was CREATIVE.  And it wasn't complete shit.  I even learned a thing or two from my supportive and caring teacher.

Other than rediscovering my creative voice, other than building my confidence as a writer, a big thing I took away from this class was a long-term goal.  Before this, I didn't know what I was going to do once I transferred to UH, and I assumed I would go into Education.  It's kind of the family business.  After working at a public school for over seven years, it was something I was familiar with.  It was something I knew I could do.  It was security.  But I'm not driven by the need to teach.  I'm not passionate about it.  It's just a job.  And make no mistake, it's a job I enjoy and I might still be a teacher.  But I love to read and write.  I just love stories and the unfolding of stories.  I love words.

I decided I would try to be brave.  I would pursue my passion.  If I fail, it will be at doing something I love.  Again, do not be mistaken.  This is not a bold statement I'm making right now.  It is frightening.  Failing at something I don't care about it is manageable.  It's not a big loss if I didn't really care about it, right?  But I care about this and I want to do it well.  I don't even know what It is.

People have said with great gusto that a person can't do anything with an English degree.  Sometimes they say it like it's a great secret and other times they say it like it's the most obvious thing in the world like the sun is hot.  People have congratulated me for making a decision, but then drop their voices and mutter, "Well, you probably can't do anything but teach with that, anyway."  I don't have one thing against teachers, but why do these folks have to dash my dreams before they're even fully formed?  Why should I be dissuaded simply because . . . I couldn't even tell you why!

I'm not angry.  Really, I'm not.  It's just something else I have to unlearn.  It's fuel for my fire.  I just want to do something I love and happen to be pretty good at and I want to be happy.  Because even now, after I've had this minor revelation, deciding to be a teacher would be my conscious choice and not merely a default.  And that might not make a big difference to you, but the intent changes everything for me.